


rock and roll saved my soul

by little punk (winchesters)



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Groupies, Multi, Punk AU, revolution feat. loud angry music
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2018-02-05 09:37:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Underage
Chapters: 7
Words: 5,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1813798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchesters/pseuds/little%20punk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of one-shots and multi-chapter-shots that follows the punk band Red and Black, fronted by the rebellious and deeply political Enjolras. Featuring Combeferre on bass, Eponine on lead guitar, and Bahorel on the drums (plus Grantaire the underaged groupie, Feuilly the supportive friend/'manager', and Marius the confused keyboard player who thought he was auditioning for an orchestral music group)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. At Least We Got Paid

**Author's Note:**

> This is for Andrei, and for everyone who loves a good punk au. And for my sister, the weirdo who I can literally hear listening to Fall Out Boy at this very moment. 
> 
> Feel free to comment, review, kudos, whatever you fancy. 
> 
> XX

 

 

“This is it, guys,” Feuilly says. He’s holding a bottle of cheap champagne, and Enjolras can see the yellow ‘Manager’s Special’ label on the bottom. “The big time.”

Enjolras isn’t sure if playing some grungy waterfront bar called ‘Neptune’s Net’ is hitting the big time, but it’s their first paid gig and he sure as hell isn’t complaining. Who cares if they’re the opening act for a total shit band fronted by a Kurt Cobain-wannabe with hair that’s too greasy and an ego way too big for a bar that maxes out at fifty patrons?

 

“Yeah, won’t be long until a record breaks,” jokes Bahorel, clacking his drumsticks together. Eponine snorts.

 

“Can’t wait to be huge in Belgium,” she snarks. Feuilly rolls his eyes.

 

“If you’re done screwing around, you might wanna get out there and show ‘em how it’s done.”

 

“What about the champagne?” Bahorel asks at once, reaching for the bottle. Feuilly snatches it away, shaking a finger.

 

“Nuh uh, kiddos. Save it for after the show.”

  
  
  


The show goes well, considering. They break out three of their best songs, the ones that are popular with the college crowds and the alt music scene downtown. Their audience is a strange mixture of students and washed-up rock fans wearing faded t-shirts from long-dead punk bands. However, they seem pretty into it, and by the end of Revolution they’re on their feet cheering.

 

In the parking lot after the show, Feuilly pops the champagne, which is so flat that it barely fizzes before settling back into the neck of the bottle. Still, they pass it around and take turns grimacing at the stale taste.

 

“Here’s to the kids,” says Bahorel, lifting the bottle high and then chugging the dregs.

 

“Christ,” Combeferre mutters. “You’re unbelievable.”

 

“Guys, you know what this calls for?” Bahorel hollers, chucking the empty champagne bottle about twenty feet into a trash can. In another life, the burly drummer might have made it as a star football player. “It’s SIZZLER TIME!”

  
  
  


 

The band gathers the next evening at Combeferre and Enjolras’ apartment to celebrate their success and reap the monetary rewards of their big night. Feuilly doesn’t get off work until eight, and everyone gets restless so Enjolras breaks out a six pack of Tecante and some Doritos. The cheap beer appeases them until Feuilly enters, carrying a manilla folder, at just after ten.

 

“My man!” Bahorel shouts, standing to clap their ‘manager’ on the back. “Did you get the dough?”

 

Eponine downs a swig of beer and quirks an eyebrow, obviously trying not to look too excited.

 

“So, how much are we getting paid?”

 

“Uh,” says Feuilly, fidgeting with the envelope. “Well, you know, the venue conveniently didn’t mention this when I booked the gig but––well, we got thirty percent.”

 

“That’s not bad!” Bahorel crows, grinning a mile wide.

 

Feuilly melds his face into something reminiscent of a smile.

 

“Heh. Yeah. So, uh, it comes out to about…” he thumbs through a sheaf of bills. “Uh, ten bucks per person.”

 

“What?” Eponine groans. “That’s, like, the gas money we spent getting to the venue!”

 

Feuilly passes around the folded bills, which everyone accepts like some kind of sad communion.

 

“Hey, if I were a real prick I’d be taking a cut of that,” he tells them. Eponine rolls her bills tightly and tucks them into her bra.

 

“Well, I’m out. Probably gonna blow this all at Norm’s on the way home.”

 

Bahorel mutters something about overdue rent and follows in Eponine’s footsteps. Feuilly, clearly sensing the deflated atmosphere of the room, ducks out too, leaving Combeferre and Enjolras alone to stew.

 

“Well,” Combeferre says after a few minutes of silence. “At least we got paid.”

 

Enjolras reaches for a pen and paper.

  
“I’m writing that down,” he says, half-laughing. Combeferre starts to gather the empty beer cans.

 

“What for?”

 

Enjolras smirks, twisting the pen cap between his fingers.

 

“New song title.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. Bahorel Goes Balls Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another college town, another show. Bahorel goes ball deep and Eponine gets jealous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I've noticed my language getting more and more vulgar as I keep writing. I'm so so sorry if anyone is offended by this. Let me know if I should boost the rating, please. 
> 
> It's currently almost 1 AM but I can't sleep because I'm going to see Fall Out Boy in September and their tour just started and I'm so excited right now good lord. Okay, peace out, kiddos. 
> 
> Also feel free to review/comment/kudos/whatever.

Eponine always promised herself that she’d never sleep with anyone in the band. Of course, back  then it had been ‘the band’, more a theory than an actual group of people. And she’d been a naive teenager who also promised herself that she wouldn’t do hard drugs or have unprotected sex. Now, after snorting some ambiguous white powder off a toilet paper holder in the bathroom stall of some shitty dive bar outside Willamette––and several shots of Jaegermeister in her––Eponine is feeling more and more like those solemn teenaged vows were just stupid promises made when she had no idea what the hell she was in for. It’s been somewhat of a dry spell for her, and tonight she’s going to get laid. Possibly before they play their ten o’clock show, more likely in the blurry aftermath, in a frat house or someone’s apartment. College towns like this are breeding grounds for one night stands and anonymous hookups behind dive bars and in the backseats of tour vans.

 

“Hey, babe.” A drunken freshman slides up next to Eponine, tilting a beer towards her. “Buy me a drink?”

 

He’s not even that good-looking, and clearly too shit-faced to function.

 

“That’s not how it works, dumbass,” Eponine tells him, rolling her eyes, and heads for the door. She’s high and horny and needs to get her rocks off. Tonight might be a Bahorel kind of night, if she can find him. She’s never actually fucked the drummer but they’ve certainly gone down on each other more than once, in the back of the van and on the couch at his apartment and once even in the bathroom at a Kum-and-Go in Bellingham––which both of them certainly did.

 

She crashes into Combeferre and Feuilly outside the bar as they’re hauling in amps.

 

“Early start, I see,” she says, passing a hand under her nose to erase any evidence of her little bathroom drug trip. Feuilly sighs.

 

“You have forty-five minutes, Ep. Go get un-fucked-up.”

 

She mock-salutes him, then heads for the van. It’s a shitty old thing, bought for five hundred bucks off a friend-of-a-friend, but the back seats flatten out to provide space for a drum kit or a quick fuck between shows.

 

Which, evidently, Bahorel has chosen to use it for. Eponine slides open the door only to be confronted with Bahorel and some blonde chick banging like a screen door in a hurricane. The girl squeals when Eponine opens the door, but Bahorel just says,

 

“Hey, if the van is a rockin’ don’t come a knockin!”

 

Eponine slams the door shut, muttering an apology, her stomach suddenly turning. She can’t put a name on why she feels like puking––it can’t possibly be the fact that Bahorel was fucking some random girl, right? They’ve never even had actual sex, let alone gone on a date. They’re bandmates, for fuck’s sake.

 

Still feeling ill, Eponine wheels away from the van––still rocking, which she tries to ignore––and back towards the neon-bright bar. Combeferre is loading in amps and Eponine almost bumps into him. He reaches out, steadies her shoulders.

 

“Whoa, you okay?”

 

Eponine ducks out of his grasp. She doesn’t want to be touched right now.

 

“I’m fine,” she snaps, then sighs. “Sorry. But yeah, I’m fine.”

 

She sticks out her fingers, wiggles them.

 

“Good to shred it tonight.”

 

Combeferre smiles.

 

“Rad.”

 

Eponine helps him haul in the rest of the amps, set them up on the narrow stage at the front of the bar. There’s already a crowd of college kids milling around, beers in hand, none of them as hardcore as Red and Black’s usual audience.

 

They’re done loading in when Bahorel shows up, hair a rumpled mess and a very distinct hickey bruising purple on the side of his neck. It makes Eponine sick to see it.

 

“Glad you could join us,” Feuilly snarks, and Eponine is certain that Feuilly knows and is a little pissed (no one likes anyone fucking strangers in the van, not when sometimes they have to crash in the back during longer trips) and for that she’s grateful because she sure as hell isn’t going to say anything.

 

“Sorry,” Bahorel says, finger-combing his fauxhawk. “Got...caught up in something.”

 

“Or someone,” Eponine mutters, earning her strange looks from Combeferre and Enjolras. She’s not actually sure how much they know about her weird relationship with Bahorel, and she’s not going to tell them. Enjolras would flip if he knew that there was inter-band intercourse.

 

“Well kids,” says Feuilly, “Are we ready to rock Willamette?”

 

“Fuck yeah we are!” Bahorel enthuses, and Eponine can’t even look at his stupid face.

  
  
  
  


The show ends early, after some kid gets clocked on the head with an empty beer bottle and the paramedics show up. Bahorel finds Eponine out by the van, taking long drags on a cigarette.

 

“Look,” he begins, and she has the strange urge to either kiss or punch him. “I’m really sorry that you walked in on me earlier. I didn’t––well, I did, but––”

 

“It’s fine,” Eponine replies, a little too quickly. “I guess I overreacted.”

 

Bahorel bums a drag on her cigarette.

 

“Hey, if I walked in on Ferre balls deep in some rando chick, I’d probably be pretty disturbed too.”

 

They both laugh at the idea of the mild-mannered, bespectacled bassist going ‘balls deep’ in anyone. And now that they’re laughing together, Eponine can’t bring herself to be pissed.

 

_He’s not yours_ , she reminds herself. _He isn’t yours and he never will be._

 

And maybe, just for the neon-lit moment in the parking lot, just the two of them and the cigarette smoke and the headlights, she’s okay with that.

 

 


	3. Anchors and Ropes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enjolras has 'one of those days'. Combeferre is there to help him. TW for mentions of self-harm and mental illness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, lovelies! Hope everyone is having a rockin weekend. I always seem to update this at the weirdest, most inconvenient hours. It's currently 12:49 AM and I have absolutely zero intention of sleeping anytime soon. Insomnia is a bitch, but it's MY bitch. Peace out, and feel free to leave a comment/request/angry rant if you so desire.

 

 

Enjolras’ episodes are something that no one really talks about, just the way that no one talks about how Eponine has scars up and down her wrists or how Bahorel sometimes gets blackout drunk and picks violent fistfights with the skinheads outside whatever venue they’re playing. Still, they worry Combeferre, often to the point of interference.

 

Today is one of those days. Enjolras has been locked away in his bedroom for the entire weekend, and last night when Combeferre got up to get some water at 3 AM, he could see a light shining from under the door. This morning, when Combeferre had tried to lure Enjolras out with the offer of hot pancakes, Enjolras had simply muttered leave me alone and pulled the covers over his head.

 

Combeferre drains his mug of coffee and dumps the dregs into the sink. Unlike Enjolras, he doesn’t have the luxury of taking days off whenever he likes––Enjolras works part-time at a co-op several blocks from the apartment, but he mostly survives off of the generous monthly allowance his parents give him, something that he claims to hate but also willingly accepts. Before he leaves for work, Combeferre goes and knocks on Enjolras’ door.

 

“Enj,” he says seriously. “Are you okay in there?”

 

There’s silence, then a soft rustling noise.

 

“Yes.” A beat. “I’m fine.”

 

And Combeferre wonders how an inch of plywood can make two people feel so far away.

  
  
  


It’s a Monday, and the after-lunch lull hits the record store where Combeferre works pretty hard. It’s mostly empty, save for a pair of teenage girls picking through the bargain bin. Combeferre uses the downtime to send a message to Jehan––if anyone can pull Enjolras out of a mood, it’s usually Jehan.

 

Jehan Prouvaire is a funny one. There are rumors that his parents are some financial bigwigs back east, the kind of people who run the country from behind the CEO desk of a bank, but Jehan is the farthest thing from a spoiled trust fund baby imaginable. A graduate of some art school in Oregon (he majored in comparative lit and gender studies), he works at an independent bookstore and writes poetry in his spare time. And he’s good, too, even gotten published in a couple of literary magazines already. Besides the creative talent, he’s a genuinely kind person. He and Combeferre met at a house party several years ago, back when Combeferre was just out of high school and writing lyrics for a band called Nightvail. They’d shared a joint on some random fire escape overlooking the city lights, and talked about poetry and music and life. It wasn’t long before Jehan had integrated himself smoothly into Combeferre’s social circle, showing up at local gigs and inviting them to parties at his apartment near the waterfront.

 

 _Enj is in a bad way_ , Combeferre types, and sends the message. It’s less than a minute before he receives a reply.

 

_How bad?_

 

Combeferre thinks about it. _I think he’s just stuck on something,_ he responds. _But I’m not sure what._

 

Enjolras does this, fixates on something for days or weeks. Sometimes it’s Romantic poetry, or East Asian politics, or the plight of polar bears in the Arctic. And sometimes it’s himself, and Combeferre is pretty sure that Enjolras turns the mirror inward until he can’t see where the rabbithole ends.

 

 _I can come over after work_ , Jehan offers, and Combeferre feels a swell of relief, mixed with guilt. He feels shitty about having to call Jehan over like some kind of damn doctor making house calls. Combeferre has known Enjolras the longest, known him since they were just two high school kids dicking around on acoustic instruments in Enjolras’ garage. He should be able to help him, out of everyone else.

  
  
  


Combeferre leaves work at five, and goes straight back to the apartment. Jehan is already there, rinsing out tea mugs in the sink.

 

“Hey,” says Combeferre, a little awkwardly. “How is he?”

 

Jehan dries the mugs out, places them back in the cupboard.

 

“He’ll come around. He just needs time.”

 

Combeferre shifts a little awkwardly, slides his hands into his pockets.

 

“Sure. Great. Look, thanks for coming over. He, uh, he scares me sometimes.” It pains Combeferre to admit this, that even after all these years he really has no idea what the hell is going on in Enjolras’ beautiful, fucked-up mind.

 

Jehan just smiles serenely.

 

“People are like ships, you know,” he says, heading for the door. “They need anchors.”

  
  
  
  


That night, Combeferre knocks on Enjolras’ door again. When he tries the handle, it’s not locked so he goes in. Enjolras is slumped over his desk, desktop computer open to a Wikipedia article about bipolar disorder. Combeferre suddenly goes all quiet inside, like all of his internal organs have suddenly numbed over.

 

Oh.

He slides an arm around Enjolras, awkwardly half-lifts him towards the unmade bed. He rolls Enjolras onto his side, then tucks the blankets around him. He hasn’t woken, hasn’t even stirred. There’s an empty bottle of vodka in the trashcan underneath the desk, but Enjolras’ breathing is low and even and Combeferre slides his two fingers delicately over the pulse point on his wrist. His heart is beating, a low thrum, beneath the pale skin. Combeferre has the sudden urge to lean over and kiss Enjolras on the forehead.

 

Instead he climbs gently onto the bed beside Enjolras, sliding his legs beneath the blanket. Enjolras curls towards him in his sleep, like a cat. Combeferre knows that Enjolras probably won’t remember this––any of this––when he wakes up, but he keeps his hand steady on Enjolras’ wrist, just above the almost-invisible lines of scar tissue.

  
_People need anchors,_ he thinks. _I’ll be yours._


	4. All Ages

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire is NOT a groupie. Enjolras reveals his bleeding heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someday I'll publish a chapter before midnight. Tonight is NOT that night.

Enjolras doesn’t believe in groupies. Like, he recognizes that they exist, but he wants no part in them. There’s something horribly demeaning, he thinks, about wanting to fuck someone just because you like the sound of their voice in a microphone. Because fucking them might somehow bring you closer to those beautiful lyrics or the way they hit that one note just right. It’s not something that Enjolras wants, for himself or for any other member of Red and Black.

 

Besides, groupies have never really been a problem before now. Bahorel is the only one to actually pick up the girls who hang around after their shows, and everyone else thinks that it’s low and kind of sleazy. Now that Red and Black is getting bigger, it’s reaching a broader audience––which Enjolras is thrilled about––that is starting to include underage kids––which Enjolras is not so thrilled about, because it means youth putting themselves in danger in order to access the 21-and-over clubs that Red and Black mostly plays at.

 

Tonight alone, Enjolras has watched four teenagers get thrown out of the DogHouse, two of them girls in denim vests who didn’t even look old enough to drive, let alone drink. He’s worried––kids get hurt at shows, even at all-ages clubs. Bahorel will tease him for voicing his concerns, but he plans on bringing it up to the band later. Enjolras heads for the parking lot, ready to round up Combeferre and Feuilly and start packing up the van.

 

“Hey!” Enjolras wheels around to see a dark-haired boy moving through the shadows at the back of the club.

 

“Hi,” Enjolras begins, a little warily. The kid had sounded almost frantic.  “What’s up?”

 

“Uh,” the boy moved into the light. There was no way he was 21; he still had a youthful roundness to his face, and his eyelashes are long enough to brush his cheekbones when he blinks. “I just wanted to say thanks. For the music, I mean.”

 

Enjolras relaxes a little. It means so much to him, more than he’ll ever be able to explain, when people thank him for committing his music to the universe.

 

“Thanks,” he says. “For listening.”

 

The kid gives him an awkward smile and then kind of backs away until he melts into the shadows. Enjolras goes to pack up the van, and promptly forgets about their encounter.

  
  
  


A month passes before he sees the kid again. Red and Black is making waves in the Seattle area, putting out an EP called Raise Your Flag, and their song Empty Streets is the top requested on a local radio show. Feuilly starts getting actually paid and talks about recording an album soon. Enjolras doesn’t think he’s ever been happier.

 

One rainy October evening they book a bigger venue than usual––the Halfway House, a popular music club downtown. The vibe is electric, the crowd hungry for rough, angry music. Red and Black delivers, with Enjolras singing so hard there’s a ridge of desperation in his voice, and Combeferre shredding so intensely that his fingers bleed afterwards. Eponine lends her screaming vocals on Ten Little Bullets, her voice high and sharp and unrestrained. By the time Red and Black plays a final encore, the Halfway House is going crazy for more.

 

“Jesus Christ,” Bahorel shouts, flopping onto the sagging couch in the backroom of the venue. “That was fuckin brilliant! Did you see them? They loved it!”

 

Combeferre lights a joint and takes a long, drawn-out drag. He taps a little ash off the end and looks at Enjolras.

 

“You know we’re doing something right here.”

 

And he does know, he knows with such a deep and honest conviction that he almost wants to cry.

  
  


Enjolras is going out to get Combeferre’s Nalgene from the stage––seriously, what kind of nerd brings a water bottle to a punk show?––when a dark figure nearly slams into him. He reaches out instinctively to steady the other person, and the hood of their sweatshirt falls back to reveal pale features and wide green eyes.

 

“You guys were great tonight,” the kid says, and his voice brings back a rush of memories from last week’s show. “Really fucking amazing.”

 

“You shouldn’t be here,” Enjolras blurts. The kid draws back, hurt flashing across his face.

 

“Sorry,” Enjolras scrambles, “I didn’t mean it like that. Just, you know, this isn’t an all-ages club, and you don’t look old enough to drink.”

 

The kid shrugs.

  
“I got a fake ID. No one messes with me.”

 

I’m sure they don’t, Enjolras thinks. The kid has hunched shoulders and heavy combat boots and don’t-fuck-with-me written all over his face.

 

“How old are you?”

 

“Eighteen,” is the defiant reply. A legal adult, maybe, but he looks younger. He pauses. “I’m Grantaire,  by the way.”

 

Enjolras puts out his hand. Grantaire’s grip is clammy, his hands shaking a little.

 

“Enjolras,” he says. “But I guess you know that.”

 

Grantaire lifts his mouth into some semblance of a smile. The sleeve of his sweatshirt rides up a little, exposing a pale wrist criss-crossed with dark red. Enjolras’ heart skips a beat––he’s not sure why, he doesn’t even know this kid.

 

“Grantaire,” he says. “You have to stop hurting yourself.”

 

Grantaire’s eyes widen, and then he pulls his wrist away, shaking the sleeve down to cover the marks. He mutters something––an excuse, an apology––and Enjolras takes out a sharpie.

 

“Call me,” he says, without knowing why he’s doing this. “If you want to hurt yourself. Call me, and we’ll talk.”

 

He writes his number on Grantaire’s hand, in thick black marker, watching the pen bleed a little onto Grantaire’s pale skin.

 

“I––” Grantaire starts, and then he holds Enjolras’ eyes for a fleeting moment. “I have to go.”

 

And then he’s off, bolting down the corridor, and Enjolras wants to call after him be safe or this neighborhood isn’t for pretty boys like you, not at this time of night but he says none of these things.

  
  
  


“Where the hell were you?” Bahorel grouses, lifting the last of the amps into the back of the van. Enjolras shakes his head.

 

“Long story,” he says.

 

“Groupie?” Eponine asks slyly, waggling her eyebrows. Enjolras rolls his eyes.

 

“As if.” He pauses. “I think we should start playing more all-ages clubs.”

 

Bahorel groans out loud.

 

“Why not just start playing kid’s birthday parties?”

  
And the conversation drops there. Enjolras drives the van back to the apartment, listens to Bahorel and Eponine arguing over something in the back, and the quiet hum of late night radio. His mind is a million miles away, thinking about a boy with dark hair and sea-green eyes and too many scars. He wonders if somewhere, back home, his phone is ringing. 


	5. Marius Stumbles Into Punk Rock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The title of this chapter really says it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've literally had the worst day and instead of doing what I usually do––which is usually quite self-destructive––I wrote this. Also because Marius is an adorable booby and needed to be featured sooner or later.

“We need a keyboard player,” says Combeferre.

 

“Dude. Punk band.” Bahorel reminds him around a mouthful of steak burrito. They’re chilling out, post-rehearsal, in the garage of Eponine’s apartment complex. Her neighbors have grudgingly agreed to ignore the clash of drums and the screaming guitars for an hour every Saturday, which is a nice break from Combeferre and Enjolras’ apartment, which isn’t soundproofed and has their neighbors banging on the door every ten minutes.

 

“Well, I wrote something new that I think would sound better with a piano intro,” Combeferre says resolutely, crossing his arms. The bespectacled bassist doesn’t ask for very much–––and he never, ever calls ‘shotgun’ in the van, which everyone else appreciates.

 

“Okay,” Enjolras agrees. “We’ll get you a pianist.”

  
  


Weirdly enough, in in a city like Seattle, finding a good pianist is difficult. Feuilly says that he knows a guy, and ends up bringing some forty-year-old dude with too many facial piercings and a really offensive tattoo on his bicep to the garage. He plays for five painful minutes before the band comes to a unanimous decision that he’s ‘not what they’re looking for’.

 

“This kind of sucks,” Combeferre says quietly as they watch Bobby-Ray slump down the driveway. “Maybe we should put an ad out.”

 

Feuilly takes out an ad in the Seattle Times, and by the end of the week they have four responses.

 

The auditionees turn out to be a quiet Asian girl named Sue who plays way too delicately, and a college student who struggles to find the right keys on the keyboard. After him comes a high schooler who is sweating profusely and plays his entire audition song––a Disney medley, apparently the only thing he knows––with the ‘echo’ effect on, creating a weird and spooky ambience. He leaves his nervous perspiration all over the keyboard when he goes.

 

“Great,” Combeferre gripes. “This is off to a great start. I’m pretty sure that the girl was the only one who actually knew how to play the piano.”

 

“‘Scuse me,” a timid voice breaks in from the doorway. “But I think I’m a little lost.”

 

In the doorway stands a tall, gangly kid with reddish hair and glasses. He’s wearing a fucking cardigan with elbow patches, and lugging an enormous keyboard case.

 

“You guys don’t look like the, uh,” he glances down at a scrap of paper in his hand. “Seattle Chamber Music Society?”

 

Bahorel busts a gut laughing.

  
“No kid, we’re a punk band.”

 

The poor kid turns bright red, his cheeks practically aflame.

 

“Oh,” he mutters, “Okay. I think––I think I wrote down the wrong address. I guess I’ll just, uh, show myself out.”

 

He’s turning to leave when Combeferre calls after him.

 

“Wait! You, uh, you wanna show us what you’ve got?”  

 

The kid wheels back around, nearly dropping his keyboard.

 

“Yeah! I mean, sure. No problem.”

 

He scrambles to set up his keyboard, despite Combeferre’s offer of the old Yamaha in the corner. He starts out with the beginning of a rolling classical piece––beautiful, but tame. Then he stops playing.

 

“Fuck that,” he mutters, fingers poised above the keys. “You guys are a punk band, right? Then I’m gonna play something punk.”

 

He launches into She 1977 by the Misfits, pounding the keys like a madman, and damn he makes the piano sound punk as fuck. He loses the good-boy attitude too, his chestnut hair flopping all over the place as he headbangs to the rolling chords. When the song ends, his forehead is shiny with sweat.

 

“Holy shit,” Bahorel says.

 

“What’s your name, man?” Eponine asks, leaning forwards, hand curled under her chin.

 

“Marius,” the kid half-squawks. “Marius Pontmercy.”

  
“Well, Marius Pontmercy,” says Combeferre, grinning. “Welcome to Red and Black.” 


	6. Like a Song

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Grantaire seeks out Enjolras' help. A heart-to-heart ensues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: This chapter contains mentions of self-harm, suicide, and depression. If any of that is going to trigger you, PLEASE skip it. I don't want any of you to be triggered by it, seriously. And let me know if you need me to add trigger warnings for anything else in this piece too. 
> 
> Thanks for reading, you beautiful flowers. Let me know what you think of this update, and stay punk. :)

Enjolras isn’t surprised when he comes home one stormy November night to find a message on his answering machine. He dumps his stuff on the kitchen counter and is grabbing a cold beer from the fridge when he sees the red light blinking. He’s half-forgotten the voice on the other end, high and a little frantic.

 

“Hey, um, it’s me. Grantaire. I don’t know if you remember me, but we met a couple of weeks ago at the Halfway House. You, uh, you gave me your phone number and told me to call you if I ever wanted to hurt myself again and, well, I guess that’s why I’m calling you because I really don’t know where else to go and there’s no one else I can talk to and––”

 

Enjolras has already lifted the receiver, he dials the phone number and listens to the other end ring hollowly. He’s about to hang up when a highl voice cuts through the empty loops of ringtone.

 

“Hello?” It’s Grantaire, Enjolras recognizes that at once. “Hello?”

 

“Hey,” Enjolras begins, tentative. “Grantaire, is this you?”

 

“Yeah,” Grantaire breathes out, air gusting against the receiver. He sounds endlessly relieved, like someone surfacing after holding their breath underwater. “Yeah, it’s me.”

 

There’s the streaking blur of traffic noise in the background, car horns fading in and out, the wet rush of tires on a rainy street.

 

“Where are you?” Enjolras asks. There’s a crackle, as if Grantaire is craning around to catch a glimpse of familiar landmarks.

 

“A payphone on Broad Street,” he says. “By the Space Needle.”

 

Christ. Enjolras rubs a hand over his face; his skin feels far away from his fingertips.

 

“Look, my apartment is a few blocks away. Can you walk?”

 

“To your apartment?” Grantaire seems dumbfounded, but there’s a catch of eagerness in his voice, like a puppy being invited up onto the couch.

 

“Yeah,” says Enjolras wearily, and gives him directions. He says, “See you in a few,” and then hangs up before he can change his mind. When they started the band, he and Combeferre emphasized the importance of youth culture, the idea of saving kids’ lives with lyrics and guitar solos. He’d never imagined that he’d be inviting one of those kids to his  _house._

 

 

 

Fifteen minutes later, Enjolras opens the door to a very damp Grantaire. He’s wearing a black hoodie, and his face is ghost-white in the dim hallway. He comes inside, smelling like rainwater and city streets.

 

“Nice place,” he comments, pushing back the hood of his sweatshirt. He looks younger then, his dark hair curling up into babyish curlicues around his face.

 

“Thanks,” says Enjolras, a little awkward. “Do you want anything to drink?”

 

Grantaire shifts from foot to another. “Got any beer?”

 

Enjolras rolls his eyes despite himself.

 

“Anything _non-alcoholic_.”

 

Grantaire shrugs. “I’m fine,” he says. Then, “Maybe I should go.”

 

“No,” Enjolras says quickly, although he’s not entirely sure why. “Don’t do that.”

 

They go out to the narrow balcony, watch the rain drip past the awning. The night is electric around them, the weirdly alien shape of the Space Needle poking through the fog. Grantaire reaches for a cigarette and a lighter.

 

“Do you mind?” He asks, which is polite, and Enjolras shakes his head. He doesn’t think someone as young as Grantaire should be smoking, but he sees the way that the boy’s fingers seek out contact with something solid and he says nothing.

 

“So,” says Enjolras. “Why did you call?”

 

Grantaire laughs, a sharp, barking noise.

 

“I was on the bridge,” he says, exhaling blue smoke through his nostrils. “I’d had a shit day and I was on the bridge and I knew I was gonna end up doing something stupid, so I called you. You don’t mind, right? That I called you? I just––I didn’t know who else to call.”

 

Enjolras shakes his head quickly.

 

“No, of course I don’t mind. You call anytime you need to, okay? I know that I probably sound like your guidance counselor or whatever, but there are people who care about you.”

 

Grantaire laughs again, that smoky, grating noise.

 

“Not really.”

 

He lifts the cigarette to his lips, and his sleeve slides back just enough to reveal the first few inches of pale wrist.

 

“Is that why you cut yourself?” Enjolras blurts out. A dark look flashes across Grantaire’s face––panic, shame––before he quirks the corners of his mouth into some semblance of a smile.

 

“Yeah, I guess so.” He pauses for a long moment. Smoke, heavy and acrid, hangs between them. “It makes you feel something, you know? When you can’t feel anything else. Endorphins or some shit. I read that somewhere. Makes you happy.”

 

“It shouldn’t,” Enjolras tells him. “Hurting yourself should never make you happy. You don’t deserve it.”

 

Grantaire looks at him sideways then, smoke pouring from the side of his mouth. His eyes are dark and full of something seething like the storm clouds over the harbor.

 

“You don’t know that.”

 

And Enjolras feels something constrict inside his chest, like his heart is being pulled a million different ways at once.

 

“I do know,” he says earnestly, aware of what an old fogey he must sound like. “I was your age once, you know. Hell, I still act your age half the time. We all go through shit, Grantaire. But you can’t blame it all on yourself, and you can’t punish yourself for it.”

 

Grantaire finishes his cigarette and stubs it out on the balcony railing.

 

“I guess,” he says evenly. And then, “You’re a good talker, you know that?”

 

Enjolras laughs now, at the relative absurdity of everything that Grantaire has just said. Enjolras, the high school student with one friend. Enjolras the freak who never had a girlfriend because he couldn’t talk to anyone except for Combeferre for five minutes straight. Enjolras, the socially awkward punk rocker trying to lead a revolution from behind a microphone.

 

“No one’s ever told me that.”

 

Grantaire looks surprised. “Maybe they just haven’t talked to you enough.”

 

Enjolras’ chest is still tight, weirdly so, and he’s reminded of the first time that he heard Stairway to Heaven: eleven years old, sitting in the passenger seat of his parent’s station wagon as the car hurtled across some foreignly barren landscape, his chest constricted by the beautiful swell of the music. It’s strange, he thinks for a moment, how much Grantaire is like a song.

 

 


	7. Blue Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Red and Black embarks on their first official tour. Thought it was time for a Combeferre-centric chapter, so here.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suck. It's 12:39 AM and I'm weird and lonely and kind of sad without knowing why. If you are too, find comfort in the fact that you are not alone.

By late November, Red and Black has crashed onto the Northwest music scene hard, shattering the ‘Seattle sound’ box and rolling south. Their first EP, Renegade, becomes a hit with the young alternative crowd. Feuilly books them for a tour of the Pacific Northwest with a band from Olympia called the Damned. The weather outside is hopelessly dreary, but things are looking up.

 

 

 

Nervous energy bounces between the band as they pile their stuff into Feuilly’s shitty white van. Combeferre tucks his duffel bag between the drum kit and a cooler, and tries not to look as excited as he feels. He’s going on 24 now, too old to get hyped up over what’s essentially a month-long sleepover (or bender, depending on who you ask), but his ribcage is full of bright butterflies that keep banging up against his heart.

 

“Are we sure that we have everything?” Feuilly asks for the millionth time as they pull out onto the highway. They’re headed to Olympia tonight, then on to Portland.

 

“Yes, mom,” Bahorel groans, exasperated, from the passenger seat, where he’s resting his shitkickers on the dashboard. Feuilly swats at them.

 

“Feet off,” he scolds, sounding more like a suburban minivan mom than ever. “This is a rental.”

 

They’re hauling a trailer full of amps and guitars and merch and shit, and Enjolras keeps turning around every five minutes to make sure that it’s still there, like it might somehow unhitch itself and roll off into the Sound. It’s kind of adorable, actually.

  
  


 

 

They meet the Damned in a parking lot outside the music venue in downtown Olympia. Their frontman is a thin, almost ethereally handsome fellow named Montparnasse, who is wearing a lot of leather and too much eye makeup.

 

“What’s up, motherfuckers?” He greets them, like he’s warming up to an audience. Combeferre tries to keep from rolling his eyes, and silently vows to spend as little time as possible with this guy over the next four weeks.

 

“I don’t like the frontman very much,” Enjolras says when the Damned have taken the stage and Red and Black is warming up in the shitty closet of a dressing room. “He has a bad vibe.”

 

Eponine sighs. “Yeah, but he has a nice face.”

  
  


Their set goes pretty well, since the club is all-ages and they’re playing to a crowd of mostly bored teenagers who will mosh to anything with a tight drumbeat. But there’s a handful of older folks in the crowd, men and women who probably crowdsurfed to Metallica and Black Sabbath when they toured the Northwest. And they seem to approve, which makes Enjolras happy––and that, by default, makes Combeferre happy too.

 

 

 

Afterwards they crash in a shitty hotel room by the waterfront, where the lonesome sound of tugboats going under the bridge keeps Combeferre awake nearly all night. He rolls out of bed at around three in the morning, unable to sleep, and goes to stand by the window. Everything outside is cold and blue and foreign, and fog is rolling in across the treetops, pierced here and there by the fairy glow of streetlamps. It is beautiful and lonely and something about it makes Combeferre itch for someone’s hand to hold. He looks at Enjolras, passed out in the bed beside his, one arm thrown haphazardly over his eyes. And he turns away, a strange sadness swelling in his chest.

  
  
  
  



End file.
